"A map of the human heart"
Charabanc of verse,
moving across parchment acres
where the vaulted stacks
of dribbled word-khat are spat
and mulched into ledgered soil;
a geology of song – migrant journeys
of the tethered soul.
Sun dips behind the ocean’s arc
and hometime shadows throw
a scaffold upon which we climb
"A line taken for a walk"
Takes me with it, this chorus line sway,
along-for-the-ride chalk hand
pirouette; a noose-line tightened
into mastabatory flex; or an
arabesque ocean dragnet
where hauler and hauled
embrace in a tail-slap of sonar love.
Mahayana sand scribes pipette
multiverse mandala worlds;
know all too well that the wind
"The territory is not the map"
Heart wrapped in a clover field
and left to the wolves; it's cold
in the forest at night, why
smother yourself in earth
when you can bivouac in the
scalar heights of isopleth homesteads:
gated lives lived in plan view.
Carpets bombed into underlay dunes
that move like ancient diaspora
across boundary lines strung
© Les Roberts 2016. All Rights Reserved.